The Tapestry of the Timepiece

In the silence, where shadows gather
and folds of past linger in hushed reverie,
there a whispered moment unknots, thread by delicate thread.

The clock breathes in gentle rhythms,
pulses woven from the night's quiet tapestry.
Ancient hands speak in echoes,
language no words could hope to capture.
Time flickers, a symphony of stillness.

Crystalline gears unravel dreams,
soft chimes draw out forgotten songs,
lullabies of yore wake
the sleeping artifacts of the void.
Behold, the weaver of fate coils its dance.

Here lies the forgotten hour,
where moments slip through fingers' embrace;
touch the whispers of destiny woven anew,
for every heartbeat sings in the silence.